


Mouth Honey

by Angelas



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, Filth, Infatuation, Language, M/M, Oral Fixation, Prostitution, Sex Work, Unhealthy fixation, dirt talk, not so friendly rick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-02-06 12:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12817092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas/pseuds/Angelas
Summary: A sleazy pickup. A handsome stranger. Daryl nosediveshard.





	1. bête noire

**Author's Note:**

> this was literally sitting in my writing folder for almost two years, eschewed and waiting to be fixed. i think it's fixed. ;-;
> 
> all beta credit goes to my [love](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian) who stuck with me throughout the process. I love you♡

**oOo**

It’s late April. Dark. Half a moon, no stars.

It’s ugly here. Alleys, piss-stained walls. Dirt road, no concrete. Just an empty bypath stretching couple miles round a busted line of train tracks. Empty buildings lie scattered out there in the distance, caved-in structures left behind. Crickets. Rainwater oozing out of fractured pipes, pack of moths orbiting a rusted streetlight.

Anyway.

He’s hungry. And he’s leaning on this wall—chipped paint, plain brick—at the back of a run-down deli. It’s the city’s fringe, so there’s a bunch of dicks sprayed freely all along it, fresh graffiti smutched now where his foot is braced to keep him balanced. And yeah, it’s cold. And he’d much rather be at home, jerry-building up the framework of some bike he can’t afford.

But being here pays. For parts, for basic stuff like food, this... _thing_...he’s been in on. At night and right here at this spot, whenever he isn’t up by noon filling out job applications for shitty nine-to-fives.

And Merle doesn’t mind, doesn’t _know_ , that he’s here. Because Merle is on probation and his bail was paid last week with what bits Daryl had managed to scrounge up from a full year’s haul of scrubbing shit from toilets.

Doesn’t matter.

Minutes pass. It pours again. Slow, but the breeze picks up from out of nowhere and it’s like ice being slapped against his face. No jacket. Just his hands shoved deep inside his pockets. He looks down, realizing his knee’s been bouncing on its own. His thumbnail hooks between his teeth. He chews it, eyelids flicking intermittently.

Soon, the familiarity of wheels. Grind for grind through dirt. Discretion.

Daryl takes his hand away. He squints. And sure enough, a compact Volvo’s rolling towards his way, headlights off and with the windows semi-tinted.

Cop or no, Daryl poses up full-view against the wall. The car comes to a stop. Daryl looks around, just to make sure it’s really him in the spotlight of whomever’s line of sight. Half of him wants to be. Half of him sicks to be.

It’s just him here.

The driver’s window slithers down. Daryl makes his way to it.

“Cold?”

The voice is gruff, slick like the gravel Daryl’s standing on. It’s dark in the interior. Daryl steps a little closer. One quick glimpse, and he sees the guy. Black hair, blue eyes. That he’s handsome… Well, it’s fact.

Daryl shrugs.

A moment passes. The car unlocks. Daryl rounds the vehicle.

“Hey now,” the man tsks. He gestures with a glance. “The back.”

Daryl stops, feeling stupid. He gets himself in back. Eyes down, back hunched, legs taking up as little room as possible.

Silence.

The man half-turns, taking in another eyeful. Down, up. Down.

“Don’t talk much?”

“Nuh.”

He smiles.

The car moves. No music, just the quiet hum of heaters. Daryl feels his cock begin to stir against his thigh. He peeks at the man’s hand through the wet muss of his hair. Nimble fingers there, patient circles being traced onto the leather cover of the steering wheel. No fret to him. No ring. No creepy-ass expression.

Just...calm. Uninvolved.

Like a 50s actor in one of Merle’s favorite noir films.

**oOo**

They detour through a bypath, en route the city’s limits, where the factories are.

Daryl didn’t even know this part of town existed. This dark, this hidden. All of it, red-handed in its need of secrecy.

Still, Daryl doesn’t query. Doesn’t care. He just needs money. So he sticks himself extra close to the cushy surface of the door, studying the guy’s every move through the window glass reflection.

It’s distracting.

His eyes. His mouth. The gunmetal glint of his Bulova watch, the subtle crimp in his brow. Pensive. Gaze lost, but not wholly. And now, the unwinding flex of his forearm as he maneuvers and U-turns the car. Something electric sparks inside Daryl’s gut. Readiness, _forethought—_

Their eyes meet through the glass. Half a glance, half a moment. A touch with no contact. The man doesn’t blink, doesn’t fluster. Daryl’s face bloodens. He looks to the side, to his lap, anticipation subverting any temperate thought.

It happens throughout _—a lot—_ these stormy, heated glances, until finally the car anchors to a stop. Daryl peers through the window. Some wide beat-up parking lot. Rummaged trash bags rotting out there in the tall grass, slag of foundry fumes drifting just beneath the black sky. It’s quiet. But the stillness is a sound of its own. Daryl shifts, attempting to tune out the flourishing ache of his hard-on, the wired thrill in his breathing.

Nothing.

Just the guy up front shutting off the car before sliding out his cellphone. Fingertaps, pithy. From where he is, Daryl can’t quite read the dimmed out screen, but knows only that text messages are being exchanged very carefully.

The tapping stops. The phone is flung into the glovebox and the keys are tugged from the ignition. The man sits back, head on the headrest.

“Up front,” he says.

A single shiver licks up Daryl’s spine. Not like disgust this time, not like the taste of his own bile this time. But something different.

He pulls the door back and enters again through the front. Shoulder-to-shoulder, _close_. The man smells like cologne, like an opened bottle of blood-warm Ballantine. Daryl’s muscles tauten. Joints, too. He looks ahead, waiting for words, for _instruction_.

“Care to brief me?”

Daryl feels the man staring again. Long, strict, deliberate.

“Eighty for fucking, twenty for head.” It’s gruff, full of want, and not very pretty.

The man doesn’t much seem to care. Daryl watches from the crook of his eye as a steely metal clip is unpocketed. The man thumbs through it. Twenties, fifties, some few hundreds. He makes sure that Daryl sees it. He picks a crisp bill, then does away the rest. Daryl swallows. Not a half doubt, he thinks, that somewhere in that door compartment there is also a fully loaded 9 ready to be drawn at any second.

“Got a name?”

He clears his throat. “Daryl.”

“Daryl,” he repeats. “That’s a nice name.”

He offers the bill, pinned between two fingers. Daryl takes it. It’s a twenty. Daryl jams it in his pocket. He reckons now that they will both walk out, someplace out there far from sight, that they will touch first, kiss first, that the guy will at least go on to give some sort of name to moan him by.

Nothing.

Daryl starts to understand. This is it. Free of fuss and just as base as the last trick he whored his ass to. It should be relief. It should be revulsion. It’s not.

It doesn’t matter.

He positions himself, twisting in his seat. Every noise is louder, every movement clumsy. He reaches, undoing the other man’s jeans. He fumbles throughout, stalling, too eager at heart to risk himself hurrying.

The man chuckles.

“Ain’t you shy,” he says.

 

In time, Daryl frees the other man’s erection. He fists it, realizing it’s only halfway stiff. He pumps, shaft to head. Once, twice, till it thickens up and fattens.

It’s heavy, sure as hell endowed. Daryl stares, jolt of heat clamping up his body. Slow, he drapes himself over the handbrake. It’s uncomfortable. He doesn’t care. He rings the cock in between his thumb and index, then he sinks his mouth on it. It nestles on his tongue, twitching periodically. He hollows in his cheeks, then sucks firmly on the head _._ The man stirs against him, pistoning his hip. Still, he does not snatch Daryl by the hair, nor does he keen. Least, he doesn’t keen yet.

Bit by bit, Daryl glides off, lips a gentle vise against the cockskin. He leans closer, tonguing the slit till sticky daubs of pre-come gloss across his lip. He laps it, swallows, then suckles on the undervein. Down and up, mentally preparing himself into engulfing all that he can take.

He goes for it. The cock stretches up his throat. The girth puffs the corners of his mouth. It hurts. The tip fondles on his airway. Daryl retches, willingly choking himself the more he smothers down. Eventually, his nose grazes the man’s pelvis. His throat convulses. Out, in. He stays there, eyes clenched, his own cock a finger-tap from spending. That’s when he feels it. Fingers in his hair, almost sweet, almost soothing, up until they curl in and grasp him by the scruff of the neck, forcing him off, inch by inch, before thrusting him down completely.

Daryl lets it, _likes_ it. Again, again. His eyes water up, his mouth waters, too. He swallows, _swallows_ , humming through the constant gag of his throat. Drool wets his chin. It traces his neck. And when at last he thinks he’ll come without ever touching himself, his eyes shoot open, hand flying up to grapple the other man’s leg. His head is shoved down, caged there, so that his throat may be reamed unrelentingly. Daryl’s vision blears. His eyes roll back. He slackens, flattens his tongue, and takes what is given to him.

Soon, the man starts to hitch to the side, dislodging himself so that only the crown of his cock is pushing against Daryl’s tongue. He jerks himself there, smooth, quick, and with a hushered groan that halfway escapes him, spends.

It pools, rope for rope, dousing the roof of Daryl’s mouth.

“Eat it,” he breathes.

Daryl eats it.

**oOo**

Not a word between them after.

Daryl sits up, no less harder. Skin flushed, heart going nuts, little knots quailing in his stomach.

Time stretches. He’s waiting for something, needing for something, doesn’t even know what it is, with what word to call it. Just feels it so hot in his chest—the urge to stay there, _just there_ , close to him. To crawl over and fit himself between the warm space of his thighs, to climb onto his lap, to play out all the rest, those stringent fingers meshed into his hair, curling in _—leading_.

None of it happens.

The air turns heavy. And soon after zipping up his fly, the man reaches, nonchalant, into the glove compartment. He slips the keys into the ignition. The headlights shine to life, the engine revs.

Silence.

Taste of spunk and cock all over Daryl’s mouth. Throat sore, humiliation flaring like an open cut inside it. He wipes his mouth. Come smears across his wrist. His eyelids flinch. His stomach turns. He hates it. Hates it  _hates it—_

Daryl swats the car door open.

“Could take ya back if ya want,” is what halts him.

Daryl blinks, attempting to peer out through the tangles of his hair. All’s a haze. Wet, distorted.

“Long way from Pine,” the man says. “You’d be walkin till morning.”

Daryl’s fist clenches. He shoves back inside. The car rocks from the impact. His whole body’s shaking.

The man rears the car. And for the entire drive back, does not look again in Daryl’s direction.

**oOo**

He makes it home. Drenched in rain and quaking, but he makes it home.

Merle there, sprawled out on the couch, after-show commercials lighting up the trailer. He’s shitfaced. Empty beer cans lie scattered on the ground, some having leaked into the carpet. Daryl stands stiffly for a moment, unsure if Merle would be sane enough to notice him walk in. He swallows, slowly scuffing towards the restroom, but the two-bit rubber floor imparts him.

Merle twists his neck around.

“Hells were you, Darleena?” It’s jumbled. He sits up, nearly flopping from the sofa. “Fucken…” He checks his watch-less wrist. “Four in the goddamn mornin—”

Daryl just keeps moving.

“—catcha takin Bobby’s wang out back I’ll fucken whoop ya,” Merle hiccups, “hear me? I’ll fucken…” he coughs, laughs, “I’ll fucken whoop yer ass Darleena—”

Daryl slams the bathroom door behind him.

**oOo**

He vomits.

Sunk down to his knees, bent over and grasping at the toilet, till finally the heaving turns up dry, till the tips of his hair are smirched with it.

He falls back, head against the wall, unable to forget, unable to unsee him. There, before the halfway blackness of his eyelids, real as the glances they’d both shared. Sharp as him, warm as him, full of _him_.

Daryl’s cock is hard in seconds.

He unzips his pants, gripping himself firmly. He strokes, rubs, slowly fucking deep into his palm, the poignant bashing of his heart as he bucks his ass up off the floor, the want in him so taut, so raw, that the arousal nearly numbs him, nearly _breaks_ him—

Daryl’s vision crosses. His body tenses, and for just the fragment of a moment, utter bliss impairs him.

His lips part. He groans. Dark hair, blue eyes—

He comes. Strings of spend shoot up from his fist, speckling his chest.

Daryl’s eyes flit open.

The wall. The quiet buzzing of the light.

Nothing.

**oOo**


	2. gnathic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, this took me a minute. but here it is now. &man...this ship needs a shower.
> 
> all beta credit goes to [bae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian). their help is always invaluable♡

**oOo**

It’s night. Two stars, one to the left and one to the right. The moon is whole, so white that it looks like a shape made of paper.

It never happened.

Daryl tells himself that. And tells himself that. Until he thinks he believes it.

So he’s here again, fingers lighting up a cigarette he doesn’t really feel like smoking. The air is heavy, slick with moisture, but it isn’t raining. He stares at the floor, listening to some guy getting it fast in the ass at the other side of the deli.

Time drags. He rests his head on the wall. The wind picks up. It starts to get cold. Gooseflesh rides up his spine, the shitty jacket he’s brought doing nothing to help it. He flicks his cigarette, snuffing it with the heel of his shoe. He should wander the bypath, should stand where more of the johns would be able to see him, should go for a bottle of booze to get himself hammered enough to actually _want_ it.

It’s worked before, making him want it. He swallows, decides it. He shoves from the wall and starts walking, but doesn’t get far by the time he hears the crunching of wheels on the shale. He stops, turning to look. Black Volvo, sleek windows— _him_. Daryl turns back around and doesn’t stop walking.

The car catches up.

“You off tonight?”

The tone is enough to make Daryl stiffen up like a lamppost. Still, he keeps his gaze to the gravel. He shakes his head no.

“You look good. Your hair.”

It’s throaty, like oil through shingle. It makes the blood go from Daryl’s cock to his face. He bites on his cheek, doesn’t say anything.

“Alright,” the man says. “Take care.”

The window starts to slide up, the wheels shifting U-turn. It derives a panic so potent in Daryl that he reaches out mid-step, weighing the window down with his palm. His knuckles tense white. He freezes, realizing how fucking creepy he’s being. He takes his hand away, as if stung, and stumbles back quickly. He feels the man scrutinize him.

“Why don’t you get in?” he offers after a moment. “I’ve got a feeling you want to.”

This time, Daryl steals a glance. It’s a risk that pays off. Those same blue eyes and pitch-dark curls. He’s dressed up, all clean skin and smelling nice, as if he’d just gotten off some important meeting from work. Daryl squints to the side, pretending and failing to seem like he’s got a place he’s gotta get to.

The car doors unlock. It’s a bullet of noise in the silence. He swallows and steps forward carefully. The man chuckles, a slow measured sound in his throat.

“I don’t bite. Unless you tell me I can.”

Daryl tries to ignore the promising ramifications of that. He can’t. He stands there, twitchy as an oversexed schoolboy, till finally he goes for the door to the car, making sure to take the backseat like last time.

The door locks beside him. The smooth leather seats of the car perfume the air. Silver alloys outline the headrests, glinting in the interior’s pall.

“Do you mind?” the man asks.

His fingertips graze the stereo knob. Daryl shakes his head, tugging into his seatbelt. Soft jazz lulls from the speakers. Daryl recognizes the tune, and so would Merle. Peggy Lee, _A Taste of Honey_. The car starts towards the dirt road.

“You cold back there?”

Daryl peers through his hair, hesitant. He’s met with a deep-sea stare, no paler, no less piercing. It’s enough to make Daryl look back down again. Like a bitch, he thinks, shifting, some rush of heat filling up his cheeks as if he’d just been scolded.

“M’fine,” he grunts.

Too quiet, maybe. The man flips the heaters on, anyway.

The byroad’s empty, so uninhabited that the silence flattens the music. Daryl fidgets, feeling like a block without shape. He pinches his jeans and tries not to think of the last time, what a heart-eyed fag he’d been, believing that a guy like this would want for any more than what he’d been offering, _is_ offering. It’s fair. He knows his own worth, knows what he’s willing to do, sober or not, for just a couple of dollars.

They slow at a railroad crossing, stopped by the boom gate. The city’s diesel train thunders by, quaking the old stone beneath it. It’s a mile long, all steel and squealing engines. A cell phone starts to vibrate as it passes. Daryl presses closer to the door, for courtesy or from embarrassment, he doesn’t know. The man leaves it ringing before finally answering.

“Hey.” It’s easy, coy.

A woman giggles in response.

_Hey to you, too._

The gate bars lift. The car starts moving. It’s silent again, if not for the faintness of the radio.

“Bit busy at the moment. Something going on?”

The flirty voice chirps up, more audible than not despite the low volume of the phone.

_Busy? This late? I was wondering about tomorrow._

The man pauses. The end of his lip rises by a thread.

“Were you?”

It’s husky. The woman flusters shyly.

_Don’t start, Rick._

Rick.

His name.

It’s Rick.

“Yeah,” says Rick, quieter. “I know a place. Tried it with a friend last night.”

Daryl doesn’t look, but he knows that Rick is watching him. Blunt, as if he wanted Daryl to look back, too, to bask in the seedy implication of his voice, their secret.

 _Only if it’s nice_.

“Oh, it’s nice. Scenery and everything.”

She giggles again. Rick mentions he’s driving and the woman sighs, coquetry dampened. He tells her goodbye and taps the call to an end. Rick’s grin disappears. He sets his phone on the opposite seat and turns up the volume. Sinatra, Blue Moon. He readjusts the rearview mirror.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “Jessie’s a sweet girl. Think you’d like her.”

Daryl half-nods. They don’t speak after that.

**oOo**

The miles flash by like blurred film, twenty minutes westward.

Eventually, Rick eases the car off the road towards a dark landscape. A chain iron fence stretches on for several yards to their right. Daryl peers through the window. Brown dusty expanse, shut off by a heavyset blackness which not even the moon can light up. Rust everywhere, an old lumber factory at the outskirts of town. Daryl feels something coil in the pit of his gut. Fear or excitement. It amounts into heat, a long steady shiver of wanting to fuck riding his spine like a kiss. He chews on his lip.

“Daryl, right?”

Daryl nods.

“Well, Daryl,” sighs Rick. He slides back his seat, head on the headrest. “What do you think?”

Daryl looks around, pretending he hadn’t examined the area just moments ago. He shrugs his left shoulder.

It’s funny, apparently.

“You like playing cute,” says Rick. “I get that.”

“Ain’t like tha—”

“Up front.” It’s snappy. “Maybe let me in on the thoughts that you’re thinking.”

Slow, Daryl unbuckles his seatbelt. He steps out. It’s freezing. A distant howl of an animal reverberates from a mile away. After, the stillness is deafening. Daryl reenters the car. Cologne, like birch and fresh wood. Rick’s gaze weighs on the side of his face.

“Busy day?”

Daryl swallows. “No.”

“It’s nice,” Rick says, almost quiet. “Like this. The lighting on your skin.”

Daryl shifts. He thinks he can feel his cock tightening like a second heart inside his jeans. His head lowers. To hide the nervous wobble of his adam’s apple or the pathetic ruddle of his cheeks.

“Not used to it?”

But Daryl can’t answer if he wanted.

“Come here, princess.”

It’s liquid, the way that Rick says it. Like the tone he had used with the woman he’d teased on the phone, as if the tone were just for him. Daryl does as he’s told, looming tentatively over the handbrake. Rick snatches him by the back of the hair, exposing his neck. He nips, sharp and wet beside the jugular vein, as if they had all the time in the world. He starts to suck, lightly at first, then harder. It hurts, but the pleasure hurts more. It’ll leave a mark, an ugly one, and the thought sends blinding sparks all through Daryl’s conscience.

“So good,” hums Rick, “just like I thought you’d be.”

He gathers Daryl’s hair in a fist, then tightens. It stings, but Daryl stays pliant, hearing his breathing come through his nose in an unsteady hitch. Rick leans, mouthing into the open buttons of Daryl’s thin shirt. He nibbles the skin, bruising with teeth, as if carefully searching for something so close to the bone. An eager noise escapes Daryl’s throat when Rick pauses.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “You like that?” He smiles, though it is more of a smirk. “Wanna show me how much?”

He gestures down to his lap, spreading his thighs. His eyes are half-closed, a much darker blue, dangerous. Daryl obeys without thinking. He maneuvers himself, back flush on the steering wheel. He’s facing him now, awaiting instruction, as if knelt on a pew.

“Look at you,” Rick says. He reaches, grazing his knuckles against Daryl’s face. “Waiting as sweet as an angel.”

Daryl feels his entire body tense up with heat. He wants to touch Rick, wants to show him that _yes_ , he’ll wait, that he wants it all badly, that it’s like drowning, that he’d do _anything._

Rick tangles his fingers atop Daryl’s head. “Go on. Just like that first time.”

It’s enough to have Daryl’s fingers undoing Rick’s belt in an instant. He does down the fly and Rick raises his hips for a moment, allowing Daryl to tug down his pants just enough to let his cock jostle free. Daryl feels his balls contract at the sight, tongue darting to moisten his lips. He leans forward, taking the tip in his mouth, the base in his fist, before sucking firmly. The cock jerks on his tongue. Rick exhales a breath he’d been holding. It’s reassuring, as ripe as all flattery, and Daryl swallows hard on the cockhead before sliding off with an audible _pop_. He tilts his head, fucking the crown into the side of his cheek. It gluts his mouth with saliva. A steady stream of drool traces his jawline, pooling and slicking the lazy ups and downs of his fist.

“Fuck…” breathes Rick. “Look at me.”

Daryl does, not stopping. Rick’s eyes are clouded, forward with lust. Daryl brings up his other hand, fondling the underside of Rick’s balls. It earns him a groan, a gravelled sound which sends shivers throughout Daryl’s body, his own cock dampening the side of his thigh. He hollows his cheeks and centers his mouth, more than impatient to slide it all into himself, to finally choke himself on the dizzying flavor of Rick till the air can’t reach his nose anymore. Rick stops him. He draws Daryl up like a dog stealing treats.

“Hey, now,” he tsks. “I wanna try something new.”

Daryl nods, mostly unthinking as he tries to ignore the thick string of pre-come which still connects his chin to Rick’s dick. He watches, pulse in his ears as Rick reaches into the glovebox compartment. At first, Daryl gnaws on his lip, cock strung so heavy against him at the thought of finally getting to have Rick inside, to finally have him shoving in and out as much as he’d like, fucking the sense out of him. But it isn’t the familiar little packet of condoms Rick siphons out, rather a short black cylinder, sleek in the moonlight.

“Went for a cup o’ joe before work and saw this.” Rick pauses, dandling the tube against Daryl’s hair. “It caught my eye, just gleamin’ there, all alone, like nobody wanted it.” He smiles. “Or maybe I’m lyin’.” He uncaps it, and Daryl’s eyes follow the movement as if it were the answer to everything. “It made me think of you, Daryl. How good you’d be in it. Like an angel.”

Daryl’s breath hitches. The nickname, pet name, whatever it’s part...it runs through him like hot water, a blanket of something so warm he doesn’t want to think about having to let go or return it. He stares, fingers clutching Rick’s thighs, as if self-will alone could stretch out the moment, make the time longer, make words more permanent. He swallows, wanting to shut and open his eyes. They’re here, the two of them. _Rick’s_ here, this mysterious man who does not belong here, is here, for a _second_ time, with him, with _Daryl_. If he listens, if he just does as he’s told, _if he does it all right—_

Something cool and soft grazes his lip.

Daryl blinks, realizing from the smell that it’s lipstick. Red, so dark it’s garnet, swabbing along his mouth very gently. He loosens his jaw, allowing Rick better access. It goes on forever, the intoxicating movements of the other man’s wrist, as if Rick were an artist and Daryl were just an old canvas he’d been inspired to fix. When Rick stops, Daryl looks up, but the look on Rick’s face is unreadable. A dull panic. Daryl opens his mouth, to offer a dose of his own self-reproach, to somehow make up for it—

“Wow,” says Rick. It’s quiet, drawn out, as if he meant every sound. “Look at you.” He brings his hand to rest beneath Daryl’s chin, brushing the bottom lip with his thumb. “You’re unbelievable.”

It leaves Daryl blundering, eyes dilating and ears burning up. Rick reaches down, grasping himself by the cock, a steady indication of where he’d like Daryl’s painted mouth to finally land on.

Daryl obeys the wordless command. He reaches down with his mouth for the head of Rick’s cock. Rick sighs, relaxing back in his seat. He pistons his hip, urging Daryl down lower. Daryl obliges, gliding down to the hilt and up to the crown without choking. He tightens his lips as he bows his neck to work the shaft faster, leaving smears of red lipstick, the faint smell of roses behind. Pre-come oozes. Rick’s thigh starts to twitch. Daryl never once looks away, instead noticing the flush of warm color which begins to surface at the top of Rick’s neck, the subtle rise in his brow and his breathing.

“Fuck,” he hushers, “look at you…”

That’s when Daryl sees it _—_ his own cock a slow-stroke from spending _—_ when Rick reaches down into one of his pockets, freely unfolding the silvery edge of a jackknife to shine in the light. It happens so suddenly that Daryl has no sense to pull off of Rick’s cock, but rather is tugged off once Rick seizes him by the back of the hair, dislodging Daryl’s mouth with a string of saliva still glinting between them.

“Hey,” he croons, almost a whisper. “It’s alright. I just want to see you against it. Just for a little. Right here.” He taps the steel lightly at Daryl’s bare jawline, caressing the sensitive flesh underneath. “Is that okay with you, Daryl?”

Daryl swallows, expecting himself to shove out the car, to swear the guy out, to punch him or to at least realize it was all some sick joke, _some fucking serial-killer-type joke_ , but...he doesn’t. Instead, he stays there, docile and nodding his head like a man in a trance, all logic bled from his instincts by the sheer saltwater innocence reflecting from Rick’s unblinking eyes, the chaste tilt of his head, as if it weren’t a blade he were holding, but a flower he’d chosen for him.

Rick lets go of his hair, and sure enough, Daryl leans forward, hungrily sucking him down to the base. He stays there, lets his throat undulate, lets the tears sting through and water. The cold steel never leaves the side of his neck. Rick bucks up after a moment, encouraging Daryl to properly fuck his own throat. Daryl does, occasionally retching, his vision rolling back into black as Rick finally begins to crumble against him. Rick’s body tautens, then Rick’s emptying himself directly into Daryl’s stomach, breath stretched into a trembling gasp as he reaches and reaches his peak.

The onrush of seed is so torrid it likens to burn, so thick that globules of it drip from the edges of Daryl’s red mouth. But Daryl does not complain. He takes it. And takes it and takes it.

**oOo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...if you haven't listened to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sq0Ax_7qisk) while reading this, you should.  
> 


End file.
